Let us begin with the superiority of Fall. No, I'm not talking about my personal preference for 60 degree temperatures and the sound of dry leaves blowing over the ground and all these slow burning colors. And while to me all the deepened flavor of things condensed by age, and the sweet sadness of the season, the virtues of its holidays: Halloween, my birthday, make it the best season to me, I only make my argument for fall's superiority based on language. No other season warrants two names. Winter is Winter. Spring is Spring. And Summer is Summer. But Fall is Autumn, and Autumn is Fall, and the wind blows and leaves burst and everything comes to fruition and dies and all is sweet and fleeting and you must prepare now, but it is all around you for this one orange and rust and gold and crimson second.
And where is Autumn best? Where I live right now. Fall is our careful wine, all deep flavors, made from a whole season, one that normally runs 3 months long, taken and condensed into three weeks. And in condensing it we have only made every aspect of it more articulated, sweeter and more pure. Intoxicating in that way that will not get you drunk, but will make you glow and be full of love.
How, you wonder, do we pay for such an astonishing three weeks, these best three weeks of the year where flowers flourish even as whole trees seem to turn into strange, giant flowers themselves, and death sticks in its hand and amazes everyone once again by being irresistible.
Death is irresistible.
How do we pay for this?
We pay for this with six months of Winter.
But for some things, no price is too high.
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